Card Castle
by Colleentj
Summary: When Dimentio, a powerful mercenary, is hired to protect Count Blumiere and Lady Timpani from the tribe of darkness, he insists that the partnership remain strictly professional. But fate is soon to turn against them, and Dimentio and Timpani enter a dangerous, scandal-ridden courtship… a courtship that could send the world tumbling down around them in the blink of an eye.
1. Prelude

_Think of this as a preface to SPM. This recounts the period of time that Timpani and Blumiere spend in hiding before they are split up. In this version of the SPM universe, Blumiere has gathered his "minions" for his own protection. Dimentio, Mimi, O'Chunks, and Nastasia will all show up during this fic, along with Timpani and Blumiere._

_Summary: When Dimentio, a powerful mercenary, is hired to protect Count Blumiere and Lady Timpani from the tribe of darkness, he insists that the partnership remain strictly professional. But fate is soon to turn against them, and Dimentio and Timpani enter a dangerous, scandal-ridden courtship… a courtship that could send the world tumbling down around them in the blink of an eye._

**CARD CASTLE**

**_Prelude_**

_You saved my life  
With blood and through sacrifice.  
The lessons that I've learned  
I promise you I said:  
Never again!  
Never again!  
No never!_

_Hey! It began with an ending._  
_Hey! We were fighting for the world._  
_Hey! My desire never ending._  
_Hey! The race. The race._

_Love is a dangerous game to play._  
_Hearts are made for breaking and for pain._  
_I'm selfish and I'm cold._  
_I promise you I said:_  
_Never again!_  
_Never again!_  
_No never!_

_-__The Race_ by30 Seconds to Mars

_I'm headed to Hell._

Dimentio—master of dimensions, pleaser of crowds, I am, &c., &c.—cuts swiftly through the night, a shadow on the backdrop of a storm. He wades his way across a long puddle, up to his ankles in icy water. It seeps through the pores in his boots, clammy and cold against his feet. He moves faster, draws his cloak closer about his ribs.

Good grief, he's skinny. Skeletal. As soon as he arrives at the castle, he's going to put on some weight. Using magic, maybe—there must be some spell to cause the illusion of weight until he's able to put it on for real. He tucks the message to himself in the back of his mind, where he'll be able to withdraw it as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

He moves through the storm. A flash of lightning illuminates something in the distance—Castle Bleck, in all its glory.

It's just as he envisioned it. Black, with tall spires and gargoyles to scare away outsiders. The lightning fades, and the silhouette of the castle fades with it.

It's more of a fortress than anything. It's armed with allies of the count that will scare out any intruder.

But _he _has been invited, called to the count's side. He has been appointed the glorious yet terrible job of Mercenary, to protect the count and his mistress.

He's closer to the castle, now. A few more minutes, and the storm has stopped. A red sun breaks through the clouds and bathes the castle walls in crimson light. Red is the color of passion, of desire.

Maybe it means something.

He nears the gate and stops. Runs his fingers along the iron bars. Looks at the castle one more time.

He doesn't want to enter. The fortress reeks of dark magic—he's the jester.

He should know.

And there's something about the castle that tells him he's not in Hell. No, this isn't Hell, this is another place entirely; Limbo, yes. Limbo, the home of the not-quite-damned, Limbo, where the impure pure find a twisted sense of peace. This is Limbo; _strongly _Limbo. Dark but dull, where the almost-sinners dwell and pretend that they are happy.

He knows this aura. He's been raised on it; it's in his blood. This is the aura of a slow and steady sadness, where gray waves wash in over and over again, dragging everything out under the watch of a bleak, tired sun.

This is more than a castle. It's a universe, an entire universe of complexity, complexity which drags and tumbles along but never goes anywhere. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the freezing cold bars, his consciousness reaching out to what's inside. He can feel radiating from the walls tender hearts that are in want of fervor. They are matches, all of them, waiting to be struck. And then he pulls away and smiles, composing himself. He must be quiet, he must be calm. He must act like nothing, so that over time, he shall become everything.

And already this place is becoming more interesting. _Probably because I'm here_, he jests, grinning inwardly. He snaps two fingers and the gate creaks open, the wet hinges groaning in protest. A light wind has picked up; the trees on either side of him, blooming with violet flowers, shake lightly. He shudders against the cold air but presses forward, clutching his wet cloak closer around his shoulders. The path leading to the castle is long and hardly worn; when he reaches the end of it, it almost feels like a relief. He takes a final breath of the brilliant morning air and reaches forward, throwing the great oak doors forward and watching as they cave into the chasm that is Count Blumiere's castle.

And then Dimentio—master of dimensions, pleaser of crowds, I am, &c., &c.— dons his trademark crooked smile because this is Limbo and it will not be Hell until he says it is. Hell—yes, what a place, and it _will _be Hell, but not yet.

No. It won't be Hell until he raises it.

**Thanks for reading! Please drop me some feedback if you've got the time. **


	2. Pilot

**CARD CASTLE**

**_Episode 1:_ PILOT**

Her name is Mimi.

Well, Miriam.

But she prefers just Mimi.

She's twenty-three years old. Her hair—green. Eyes—brown. She likes dresses and jewels and vanilla cheesecake.

People have told her she's pretty. Her legs have been called nice. She likes to make a point of showing them off when she's in public. That's what the dresses are for—to attract attention.

The Count has been a friend of hers for many years. They get along well, because they share a common trait—brain power. They like using their heads.

She gets up at 5:00 sharp every morning. She dances through the day with a smile on her face. She's a personal favorite of the count because she's so easy to get along with. She knows everybody in the castle by name, and they all know her, too.

First, there's the count. Count Blumiere Bleck is thirty-five or so, if she had to guess. (He's never disclosed his age, but it's long been mission of Mimi's to find it out.)

He wears all white. From his top-hat to his boots. (Mimi suspects that the hat is meant to make him look taller.) His most distinguishing feature is probably his manacle, which he polishes and rests on his nose like it's a trophy on a pedestal.

He's love struck. She's known that for a year or so, now. He fell in love with a young girl and brought her away to hide. His tribe—a dark tribe, so she's been told—has spent many years hunting for the two.

Then there's his mistress. The formally mentioned mistress is named Timpani.

Timpani isn't beautiful, but she's clean. Her face is very plain. Mimi supposes Timpani looks all right when she smiles. When she dresses, it's in simple gowns of orange or yellow. Sometimes red. Her blond hair is almost always pulled back out of her face. And she's tall, too—the reason the count wears the top-hat.

The count and Timpani have been in love since Timpani was fifteen and the count was in his twenties. Now, Timpani is Mimi's age—twenty three or twenty four, if she had to take a guess. Unfortunately enough, the count's evil tribe means to find the pair and kill them. They've broken an ancient rule—light and dark dwellers aren't allowed to hook up, so Mimi's been told.

After Timpani in the Castle lineup is Charlie O'Chunks, a brute drunkard with brawn where there should be brain. Mimi has always liked something about him—his will to laugh, his careful affection toward her, or something else. She doesn't quite know.

He's big, too. O'Chunks has this long red beard and he dresses in armor. He's terrifying. But, again, there's a tenderness toward Mimi that he doesn't express to anybody else.

His age? Perhaps the same as the count.

After O'Chunks is a myriad of servants and guards that patrol the corridors of the Castle. Most of them are happy to serve the count, and everything functions smoothly. Castle Bleck has yet to meet a single flaw.

…

Lady Timpani, Countess of Castle Bleck, Mistress to Count Blumiere Bleck, Lady of the House Castle Bleck, etc., finds a seat in the lounge and rings the bell for Herb Tea. A servant appears moments later with a tray of it. She's had a hankering for the stuff ever since a visit to Flipside with Mimi a few weeks ago.

She takes the ceramic dish and tea cup and sits back. She has the servant open one of the arched windows to let in some fresh air. After a few minutes, Timpani sets down the dish and stands by the window herself.

It's a fair morning. The count has warned her of afternoon thunderstorms, but from the weather now, that seems impossible. The sky is a fresh blue and the garden down below is blooming with life.

She likes being a lady. She likes it because she can have anything she desires without having to make an argument. It's not like it was before, when she was poor. She lived with four brothers in a seaside cottage. It was the same thing every day—hard work and cheap food. Two of her brothers had worked in a mill in Flopside. The other two were too young to do anything. Timpani had sewed for a living. Her father had been dead, her mother helpless, her aunt the only adult who helped the family survive…

And then came along Blumiere. He saved her, and they ran away. Now, she can have anything. All the food, all the clothing, at the ring of a bell. She likes to think she's been spoiled just a bit.

Mimi comes in to attend to the fire.

"Good morning, Milady," she says. Just like always.

"The same to you," says Timpani.

Technically, Mimi is a servant. Although the count sees her as more of a friend, he still makes sure Mimi knows she is not quite of the same rank of the lady. And Mimi is careful to retain this position; she knows that the count is quiet and kind and gentle. She respects and adores him, and for this reason, she respects and adores his mistress. So she pampers Timpani, half because she likes Timpani, and half because she wants the count to like _her_.

There is a slight breeze coming in through the open window and it ruffles the lady's hair. She smiles at the sight of the vast, azure sky.

"Mimi, I think I should like to go for a walk today."

Mimi gives a small smile. "I'm sure the count would like that. He'll appreciate the view."

Timpani's composure breaks for a second as she giggles. "Do you suppose so?"

"Oh," teases Mimi, "he thinks you're the fairest thing to ever walk these grounds!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

They're both laughing now, and Mimi leaps gracefully to her feet, pirouetting across the room and grabbing the lady's hands jovially in her own.

"He thinks that you're _fantastic,_ that you're _beautiful, _that you're the most _striking _woman that ever he laid eyes on!"

"Oh my!"

"He never stops _talking _about you!" Mimi cries.

"Well!" gasps the lady, "I _do _believe he is in love with me!"

They descend into a fit of silly laughter, because _obviously _the count is in love with Timpani; he's told her many times. When they regain their tranquility, there is still some stifled laughter underneath.

"Poise," Mimi reminds her quietly. "Poise is key if you want to turn heads."

But Timpani is giving her a queer look. "But everyone knows that well-behaved women waste so much talent."

Mimi raises an eyebrow. "I don't suppose you made that one up."

"Suppose it." Timpani sashays her hips as she struts toward the door. "This room bores me," she decides.

"But I just lit a fire!" Mimi protests.

"Then you shall have to light more fires!"

Mimi rolls her eyes. With a sigh and a smile she breathes, "Yes, Milady."

She follows Timpani out into the airy, arched corridor. The massive window at one end has been opened to let in the air, and the baby-blue drapes are fluttering on the breeze. Timpani smiles as she canters over; she stops where the hardwood floors transform into a winding staircase. Before she's taken two steps, a _crash _echoes from behind. Mimi and Timpani whirl around in unison, and there, red-faced with horror, is O'Chunks.

Mimi gasps. "Charles O'Chunks, look at what you've done!" She scrambles over to his side, where a ceramic vase lies shattered at his feet. Water has gushed out all over the dark floorboards, and a few tired flowers drift along atop the surface of the puddle.

"Oh, Chunky…" laments Timpani, fighting back the urge to smile.

"Bluddy ugly, it was, anyway," O'Chunks complains.

"Oh, please, O'Chunks," Mimi scoffs, "that vase belonged to the count! Now you're going to have to make up for it!"

"No worries," a calm and gentle voice interrupts. "It's quite all right."

The three glance up in unison to see the count stride in their direction. He's dressed all in white as usual, and gives a well-humored smile. The atmosphere in the room warms up almost immediately; that's the effect that he has.

"O'Chunks is right," he sighs. "That vase was far too ugly to live. Better that we ended its misery now, don't you suppose?"

The group chuckles in relief, and with the ring of a bell, a hoard of servants comes stampeding up the stairs. They attend to the mess immediately, and with a smile, the count says, "Come along, then. It is time for breakfast."

They journey down to the marvelous dining room. Count Blumiere takes his seat, and gestures for the lady to sit beside him. Mimi and O'Chunks sit next to each other at the other end, and Mimi scowls every time O'Chunks steals food off of her plate.

"Have some _manners_," she scolds, but he continues his thievery anyway. Finally, she gives up, and slides her plate over in his direction. _If you can't beat 'em_, she thinks, _join 'em._

The dining room has a high, vaulted ceiling and arched windows lining the walls. The dark violet curtains complement the gold-lined mahogany of the furniture, making this room one of the most magnificent in the entire castle.

However, Timpani, as usual, is bored again.

She smirks to herself and, grasping her skirts and hoisting them up to her knees, moves her leg over to wrap it around the count's. He squirms immediately, a blush crawling up around his well-kept mustache and beard that lines his face. He clears his throat and scoots his chair in a little bit, shooting her a dark look through his monocle. She tosses her head back and laughs, earning her strange looks from Mimi and O'Chunks.

"Something a'matter, Count?" asks the barbarian in his usual gruff tone.

"No, nothing at all," Blumiere answers smoothly, but his voice cracks halfway through. "As a matter of fact, everything is just- _ah!" _His composure breaks as Timpani's hand snakes across his thigh.

Pleased with herself, Timpani stands up.

"If you'll please excuse me, I think I'll go for a walk in the courtyards. Mimi, won't you join me?"

Mimi stands up quickly and shoots after her. Once the dining room doors close behind them, she shoots her a glare.

"You're a devious thing, aren't you?" Mimi muses. "Oh, Timpani… you had him red as a beet and _squirming_, too!"

Timpani only tosses her hair over her shoulder. "You don't say," she teases.

By the time they reach the courtyards, several minutes have passed. Mimi pushes open the double doors, but both faces fall when they realize that the sky is clogged up with clouds.

"Oh _no!" _Mimi cries as the rain crashes down in front of her. "Oh, look at this… what terrible weather—Lady Timpani!" she exclaims, but the lady has dashed past her, and has thrown her hair back. Her arms are stretched far over her head, and she is spinning, her scarlet skirts flying out around her.

"Timpani, you fool!" Mimi cries. "You're getting yourself soaking wet. You'll catch a cold! Timp—don't you dare—!"

Mimi's stomach lurches as Timpani grasps dry palms in her own wet ones and pulls Mimi out into the gardens. The rain cascades down on both of them, and Timpani spins and laughs. After a second, she pauses.

"Being a lady is so dreadfully _boring_," she laments. "You have everything in the world, yet you can't have a bit of _fun._" She frowns and drops Mimi's hands. "Even old Blumiere can be so _staunch _sometimes. I love him to death, but I wish he would let loose."

A clap of thunder overhead cuts her off and she shrieks, stumbling forward and forcing Mimi to support her weight. For a second, they are fine, but both girls tense up at the sound of a voice.

"MIMI! What the bluddy 'ell 'r yeh doin'?!"

Their heads snap up as O'Chunks comes barreling into the gardens, wrapping an arm around Mimi and escorting her back inside. Timpani peers past him to see the count, poised, proper, and perfectly dry underneath an overhang. He raises an inquisitive eyebrow and the lady sighs, trudging inside to meet him.

The doors crash shut behind her, and the only sound afterwards is that of the muffled raindrops on the roof overhead.

"Yeh coulda been struck by lightnin'," O'Chunks now says, a gentler tone to his voice.

"Oh, what's it to you, anyway, Chunky?" Mimi questions. "Besides, it wasn't _my _idea. It was that lunatic _Timpani _that we keep calling 'countess!'"

Said lunatic is on the other side of the hall, wringing out her hair onto the carpet and avoiding the count's stern gaze.

"You really have acted in such an ill manner this morning," the count is complaining. "First breakfast, and now _this—"_

"Don't start, Blumiere," Timpani snaps. "Do you really expect that I will be _happy _holed up in here? Blumiere," she says softly, raising one gloved hand to explore his bearded face, "you _know _I love you, but you must remember that this is not the life I was born into. I am still but a peasant girl, Blumiere. I am sand and sea and wind and rain, and you cannot take that away from me."

He is giving her a sorrowful stare. "Of course, my darling. Forgive me… I needn't be so rash with you." He turns his back, and Timpani rolls her eyes, grinning at Mimi, who smirks in turn. "Now," the count says, "let us occupy ourselves with more pleasant matters. I have had the upstairs drawing room prepared for us. Come along!"

He takes Timpani's arm , and the company sets off up the winding wooden staircases. Timpani stares longingly outdoors as the rain cascades down the window panes. She doesn't say anything, though, and merely faces forward as they walk.

In the drawing room, the count and the lady occupy themselves with a game of chess, and Mimi withdraws an old book of fairy tales from the shelf, reading aloud from its pages as a means of entertaining O'Chunks. His eyes are alight at the words, and Mimi sighs inwardly, knowing that if O'Chunks could read, he'd be the happiest man in the world.

Back at the chess board, the count and the lady are staring each other down. When it is Timpani's turn to make a move, the count coughs loudly to throw her off. In retaliation, Timpani picks up the habit of making faces as a distraction. This trend continues until they are pantomiming scenes as a means of sabotage. It looks quite ridiculous, but they are happy, so Mimi lets it go.

Finally, victory is Timpani's.

"Check," she says, throwing her arms high in triumph. "I am the_ vic-toooor_!" she sing-songs loudly, getting to her feet and swiping the count's hat from his head. She places it snugly on her head and declares herself Empress Timpani the First, giggling when it falls over her brow and covers her eyes. She feels a kiss smother her face, and the count removes the hat from her head in the process, returning it to his own and looking substantially taller than he did half a second ago.

"Ew," says Mimi finally. "Couples."

The scene is shattered as the door bursts open and three servants rush in.

"My lord!" one of them cries. "There is a man come calling at the gates! He requests an audience with your lordship."

The count's eyes light up and he grins. "Ah, yes!" he remarks. "That is just the man I've been wanting to see." He turns to his friends. "I've requested that a new associate join our company. He is a fellow of infinite jest, or so I hear… ah ha ha…" He chuckles lightly and turns to Mimi. "Do go greet the fellow, won't you, Miriam? Let him know that I'll be down momentarily."

"Yes, my lord," Mimi says softly, curtsying and shuffling out into the corridor.

The count finds a mirror on the wall, straightens his hat, smirks, and departs, swinging his polished wooden cane as he turns out into the corridor.

The others glance curiously after him, but it is Timpani who actually takes initiative to follow. They pass through winding corridors, finally coming out into the arched, gothic entrance hall. The count descends the staircase, but the lady stays back, peering tentatively around the corner at the figure down below.

The newcomer is tall and slim, but hard to make out in the dim light. She realizes that the storm has only just stopped, and now the skies radiate an ethereal shade of scarlet, rolling like mist through the windows and bathing the entrance hall in a hazy, nebulous atmosphere. She peers closer, but the figure is too far away and too dark to make out properly. She can feel her heart beating quickly, but she doesn't know quite why. As the newcomer makes his way up the staircase, she sidles around the corner and presses her back against the wall, just peeking out far enough to watch him go. But still it is too dim to properly see him, and all she can think is that his gait and his posture are very, very peculiar.

The comfort and gaiety of the house has suddenly shifted, as if the balance of the scales has been thrown off. Why she feels this way, she does not know. But the only thing she knows for certain as she watches that strange figure retreat is that things feel very, very strange, and for that reason, she shouldn't have to worry about being bored for much longer at all.

**Sorry for the delay. Half of the chapter got accidentally deleted and I had to re-write it. Thanks for reading, and please leave a review and tell me your thoughts! I love getting feedback of any kind. **

**Next chapter: Dimentio moves in and makes his mark.**


	3. The Laws of the Universe

**CARD CASTLE**

_**Episode 2: **_**THE LAWS OF THE UNIVERSE**

_There is love in your body but you can't hold it in  
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin  
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks  
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts_

_The hardest of hearts_  
_The hardest of hearts_  
_The hardest of hearts_

_There is love in your body but you can't get it out_  
_It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth_  
_Sticks to your tongue and shows on your face_  
_That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste_

_Darling heart, I loved you from the start_  
_But you'll never know what a fool I've been_  
_Darling heart, I loved you from the start_  
_But that's no excuse for the state I'm in_

_The hardest of hearts_  
_The hardest of hearts_  
_The hardest of hearts_

_-Hardest of Hearts _by Florence + the Machine

Dimentio steps inside of the castle, kicking the mud off of his soggy boots and glancing up. The entrance hall is colossal in size, constructed of dark stone and stained glass windows. The atmosphere of the room is eerie; it's like the mood has followed him inside.

"Ah! Welcome! You must be the count's new servant?"

A girl is rushing in his direction, green pigtails bobbing with the motion. She is short and curvy; Dimentio takes note of her pretty face and excellent figure. He knows he's being obvious and he also knows that she adores the attention, so he doesn't do anything to hide it.

"The count is just down the hall," the girl continues without so much as a blush. "My name is Miriam, by the way, but most everyone calls me Mimi. It's a term of endearment."

Dimentio trails after her and two servants materialize to help remove his heavy blue cloak. They whisk it off of his shoulders and his full body is revealed: slim and lean, with pale, mostly concealed skin. He wears black undergarments and tight black pants and gloves; the boots are leather and sturdily made, and the undershirt is laced up tightly around his neck.

His appearance itself is out of the ordinary- a firm, stiff jaw, and a long, straight nose. His mouth is set in a straight line, the lips turned in a perpetual half-smirk. His hair is black and neatly combed, his brow unmoving, his eyes pale yellow, cold, and drawn in a way that makes him seem foreign.

All in all, he has the aura of a man who has seen too much and indulged in too little; Mimi can tell by just looking at him that he is not the approachable type. He's the loner type; he probably likes to sit and brood, or pace and brood- brood anywhere, for that matter. He's bizarre in a quiet way, and the withdrawn expression on his countenance confuses her; five minutes she's known him, and she is already entranced.

(Although, she adds internally, he is quite handsome. Maybe that's what makes him so special.)

"Dimentio! My good man!" the count cries, and Mimi and Dimentio glance up to see Count Blumiere descending the staircase, his arms spreading wide in welcome. "Tell me! How was the journey?"

Mimi sneaks a glance at Dimentio's rain-drenched boots, then at his velvet-lined cloak dripping in the arms of the two servants.

"Fine," Dimentio answers, and Mimi snickers to herself, as the journey was clearly anything but fine.

"Excellent!" cries the count, oblivious as always. Mimi folds her hands behind her back and bites her lip, fluttering her eyelashes in a way that she hopes is both flirtatious and welcoming.

The count adjusts his manacle, then his top-hat, and leans against his cane with a grin. Dimentio returns it with a weak smile.

"You're quite the reserved fellow," the count now remarks. "I hope you'll feel at home here in the castle!"

"I am a mercenary, not your guest," Dimentio says quietly. "Forgive me if I seem standoffish. I'm a professional; I don't abuse the luxury of my own position."

The count is silent for a moment before cracking a sudden grin. "Of course not!" he remarks. "And I would be a fool to forget it! You shall be treated as a professional, of course! But in the meanwhile... Miriam!"

Mimi perks up. "Mhm?"

"Dinner is in less than an hour and Lady Timpani will soon be waiting for you in her dressing room. I recommend you head up and give me a moment with our mercenary."

"Yes, my Lord!" She curtsies, flashes one last wink in Dimentio's direction, and scurries off.

Dimentio watches her go, and the count smirks.

"She bewilders you."

"I'd imagine she bewilders everyone," the mercenary answers, and the count steps back and scrutinizes him.

"You know why you are here, correct?"

Dimentio catches his eye. "To protect you, of course," he answers. Blumiere shakes his head.

"Not my protection, no; the lady's!" He pauses for a second. "Tell me, what exactly do you know of our situation?"

"I know only what you divulged in writing," the mercenary replies. "I know that you are being hunted by a dark tribe after deciding to elope; I know that you're in possession of a large fortune, that you've used the funds to construct this fortress; I know that the lady will likely be killed if you are discovered here, and that is why you've hired an elite team for your own safety. I am your magical mercenary; Charles O'Chunks, the infamous, er, brute, is the other soldier."

The count smirks. "Well, then. It appears that you're better informed than I initially suspected! Come now, Master Dimentio, and I shall show you to your chambers. I think you shall like them!"

* * *

_The count certainly seeks to be impressive,_ Dimentio thinks when he enters his chamber. The count smiles, gesturing around the room in grandiose execution.

The vaulted ceiling shelters a massive room with black stone walls. Arched windows let in the crimson afternoon light, and the gothic mahogany furniture is certainly magnificent.

Hanging on the front of the wardrobe is an interesting garment; Dimentio recognizes it instantly. A violet and yellow cloak with a blue clasp, accompanied by a court jester's hat. A mask, half black, half white, smiles hauntingly at him from where it is hanging on the doorknob.

Dimentio approaches the clothing and runs his fingers along the beautiful fabric. Then he turns to face the count. For the first time, there is emotion on his face- shock.

"How did you come across this?" he asks. The count merely chuckles.

"O'Chunks found the merchant who was holding onto it. Black market. A token of Flopside."

Dimentio can only stare in awe. "It was my father's uniform. But it was confiscated from him after he..." He clasps his gloved hands quickly. "What time is supper?"

"Mimi will fetch you when it's time to eat," the count explains, leaning on his polished ivory cane. He gives Dimentio a curious look. "You are a quiet fellow," he observes.

Dimentio merely frowns. He is holding the mask, his father's mask, up at eye level.

"I suppose," he says quietly, "that I just haven't got much to say."

The count observes the new mercenary for a minute or so. Then he gives a grunt and stands up straight. With a nod, he exits the room.

The door shuts, and Dimentio is finally alone. He drops the mask almost immediately, as if it has seared his skin through the leather of his gloves. He doesn't react at the clattering of the vinyl against the floorboards, and falls almost immediately back into the comfort of the four-poster bed. He draws the curtains shut and clutches a throw pillow almost possessively, running his fingers along the satin. His finger snags on a loose stitch and he plucks at it almost possessively, though he is hardly paying attention.

His mind is spinning. Images of the entrance hall and Mimi's legs and the jester's uniform swirl around in what is a total blur to him, and he runs through each image with precision, memorizing it exactly, trying to find a place to store all of the information so that he'll be able to withdraw it again. Meditation such as this is an important practice for him; he does it effortlessly. It is a way of forcing himself to examine and remember and analyze information, of pushing the limits of his mind, of expanding the walls there, plastering new memories over the old ones and boarding up the dark ones that have long since drawn into the recesses of his brain...

His thoughts fall gradually into place, shuffling to and fro as they organize themselves. They brush past each other, forming links and connecting circuits that light up as the mercenary becomes more in-tune with them. He clears the way for logic, trimming the overgrown thoughts, dusting off the orderly ones, cooling and calming and collecting himself as he places the world in a mathematical light instead of a romantic one. Life is a flowchart, a yes-or-no, this-or-that flowchart, with percentages and probability. Emotions become chemical reactions and thought patterns become no more than electric paths. Humans are wired to feel because math and science, the laws of the universe, say so. Magic is no more than an advanced form of science- Dimentio knows this from years of studying- which is why he's spent toO much time at his desk, mulling over chemist's theories and geometric theorems, fervently studying physics and astronomy, falling asleep at a desk only to be slapped awake by his father-

_No._

Somewhere along the line his thoughts have meandered back to his father, and now his eyes shoot open. His mind has cleared substantially, but still the tread of his father is audible along that weathered path. His father festered there long ago and has refused to leave; by now, Dimentio has accepted his father's presence there with dull resignation. Now he regards him almost casually from time to time, but it still stings. And yet he has faced pain many times without cringing. It is the hatred that scalds him more than anything else...

A knock on the door hauls him from the depths of his mind, and he gets to his feet almost shakily, his breathing hollow. He steadies it and unbolts the door; a valet stands attentively before him, and Dimentio merely raises an eyebrow.

"I can dress myself," he says coolly before the valet has even a moment to speak.

"But sir-"

"My decision is final," Dimentio presses, and he shuts the door nonchalantly in the shocked valet's face. When he turns away from the door, his own face is impassive, and he locks the door with a snap of the fingers and crosses the room once more.

The jester's uniform hangs ominously from the wardrobe, and Dimentio stares it down with disgust. The count had no doubt mistaken Dimentio's shock for awe, when in reality, it was a twisted sense of horror that had unhinged the mercenary's jaw. He has no desire to don this garb; as a matter of fact, he would rather toss it into the fire, but considering that the dormant fireplace holds nothing more than old, dead ashes, that's not a possibility. Besides, it's more worth his time to humor the count.

After all, Dimentio isn't the only fool in the castle.

He chortles inwardly at his own jest and then withdraws the robes from the closet door with an air of finality. The thick fabric rustles as it slides over his head, blotting out all light for a split second before his head emerges and the cloak spreads across his shoulders. The hat follows quickly, but it sags sullenly about his head, and instead of appearing jovial he appears only slightly worn. He glances in the mirror and his breath hitches in his throat, for in that moment, he swears it is his father he sees in the glass.

He swallows heavily and then reaches for the mask at his feet. He holds it up to eye level, staring it down. The mask stares back, its terrible face split into a perpetual grin of sheer elation. Its expression is mad, and Dimentio's mind swirls in response to the terrible sight. His heart throbs wildly in his chest, pounding in his ears like a drum, and all he can hear is laughter, laughter, awful, choking, gargling_ laughter-_

_Knock, knock, knock._

His wide eyes snap shut and he breathes. The pounding ceases; his blood cools; in a flash, he draws the closet door open and throws the mask into its depths, slamming the door shut and eclipsing it in darkness.

He is cool-mannered when he opens the bedroom door. Mimi is standing expectantly on the other side.

"Yes?" Dimentio says, and he is surprised at the steadiness of his voice. His heart is still hammering; why did the count have that mask? The question plagues him. Blumiere's explanation about a merchant had seemed too vague to be true; Dimentio has decided that there must be something that the count is keeping from him, and he is determined to find out.

"His lordship requests that you join us for supper," Mimi explains, and the mercenary cringes at the formality of her statement. He already feels foreign enough; must she really magnify it so heavily?

"Of course," he chokes out, and steps out into the drafty corridor. He lets the massive oak door slam shut behind him; the coats of arms and tapestries shake at the impact, but neither Dimentio nor Mimi pay any mind to it. They proceed in relative silence for a moment, and Dimentio, not caring enough about aesthetics to focus on the decorations, withdraws into his mind one last time before supper. He runs through the usual movements, reminding himself of the importance of mathematical theorems; he considers geometry and trigonometry, ponders angle measurements and the law of sines in the architecture around him, considering the slanted ceilings and the angles there, the distances between the rafters, considering sine and cosine and how that relates to the tension in the beams...

In the end, it will not matter to him whether he can analyze the mathematical buildup of the castle, but by doing so he has cleared his mind once more of emotion. He has resorted to the serenity offered by such processes, and when the dining room doors swing open, all thoughts of romance, of fear, and of passions yet unknown have subsided. For the first time that evening, his mind is truly clear, and he proceeds delicately to the table. He is offered a seat adjacent to the count's chair; he accepts it without really thinking, folding his hands in his lap and watching as Mimi and another man- this one bearded and kilted- take their seats. Dimentio recognizes the brute almost immediately. This must be Charles O'Chunks, he theorizes. He observes the man thoroughly, takes note of his appearance, his manner, his smell- and then files the information away in his mind.

They all glance up as the dining room doors open yet again. Emerging from the hallway is the count, who looks just as splendid as he did an hour ago, and yet slightly more formal. He has polished his monocle since Dimentio saw him last.

To his left, her arm wrapped loosely around his, is a woman that Dimentio can only assume is Count Blumiere's mistress. The mercenary drinks in the sight of her; she is decent looking enough; tall and thin, and while she isn't beautiful, she is buzzing with youthful joy, energy, and optimism. Her satin dress, a vibrant shade of scarlet, pools at her feet, but the sight is in no way serene. If anything, she looks like a flame.

She must burn everything in her path, Dimentio theorizes, and takes a snapshot of the image with his eyes, tucking it away, storing the details. It is robotic, it is therapeutic. But the system stalls temporarily when quite by mistake he and the lady lock eyes.

Her eyes are green- very green- and when she sees him, they narrow slightly. The joyfulness vanishes from her face and is replaced with a vague, almost thoughtful expression.

And then he realizes.

The lady is calculating. She is analyzing him just as he is doing to her; it soon becomes a silent battle of deduction, both parties staring relentlessly, brains whirring inside their heads as they try to understand who and why and how.

"Hello," she finally says coolly. "You must be the count's new victim." And then the tense moment is terminated by her smile.

Dimentio clears his throat. "Such wit," he answers slowly. "I assume you welcome all newcomers in such a fashion?" He creates a mental scale on which to weigh the intensity of such mannerisms. It seems that she finds value in sarcasm, a measure of which she has herself. But to what measure?

The lady raises an eyebrow and draws out her chair. "Do you fancy yourself clever, sir?"

"Quite so, my lady," Dimentio answers, and she cracks another smile in response.

"Well, then," she muses, sitting down and smoothing out her skirt, "you and I will get along swimmingly." She offers a gloved hand. "I am Lady Timpani."

He cocks his head. "Dimentio," he answers, "mercenary to Count Blumiere." He takes her hand and kisses it over the table. "The pleasure is mine," he adds once they have broken apart.

Dimentio realizes suddenly that all eyes in the room are focused on them. He clears his throat and reclines, folding his hands in his lap. Dinner proceeds as normal thenceforth; he is introduced to a myriad of servants and tries his best to analyze them as he has analyzed the others; however, he soon becomes frustrated. Timpani's gaze is incumbent upon him; understandably, he doesn't appreciate her avid curiosity. He feels that he has at least some right to privacy; and for god's sake, why doesn't she drag her gaze away from him and spare at least a sliver of attention for the count? It's the least she can do.

Logic is taking a back seat, and Dimentio groans inwardly. He finds himself wracked early on with irritation. It is unfair that this woman should be able to dismantle his thought process this way; her gaze is keen yet tranquil, so why does it feel so excruciating to him? He is stumbling over his own thoughts, stalling in a meditative process that is usually so smooth. His thoughts are nebulous, now, confusing even to himself, and the arithmetic of it all is making less and less sense by the second.

His blood has soon run hot, his face red. His fists are clenched, palms sweating, and he knows that anger and embarrassment are all just chemical reactions, and yet he can't suppress them. Chemistry is one of the many laws of the universe. Damn those laws of the universe. Finally, his patience having worn thin, he glares up keenly and locks eyes with Timpani once more.

"Have I got something unsightly on my face?!" he questions, repressing the urge to spit out the words. His vehemence escapes unhindered, and he can feel the entire room fall quiet at his confrontation of her.

"At first I thought you might," she answers coolly, "but then I realized that you were simply born that way."

He bites down on his tongue to as to repress his attitude. He knows that he's already entered dangerous waters.

"Forgive me," he says after a moment, having taken a deep breath. "My accusation- it was crass. I am rather embarrassed..."

She pauses. "I must admit, I am surprised. I expected a repartee- I am disappointed. I do love a good argument."

He searches desperately for words; having settled on none, he clamps his jaw shut and thinks. "Do you often win?" he finally questions.

"Win?"

"Arguments."

"Yes. I always win, don't I, Blumiere?"

The count's composure breaks, and he smirks. "I'm afraid so. You are far too adamantine for your own good, my dear."

"Ad-adam-wha'?" questions O'Chunks from the other end of the table.

"It means that she's stubborn in a lustrous way," Mimi explains quickly. Timpani grins with pride, but Dimentio merely raises an eyebrow.

"Obstinance was not a virtue last I heard," he advises.

Timpani grows still and gapes at him. "Are you a pious man, then, Master Dimentio?"

He smiles crookedly. "That's simply not fair, my lady."

"Why not?"

"I'm afraid," he answers, "that I've drawn far too much attention to myself already."

"Ah, but you're the newcomer! No problem with being the cynosure of our company, wouldn't you agree, Master Dimentio?" the count interrupts.

"On the contrary," the mercenary counters, "I prefer to remain subtile when I can. I find the limelight to be rather nocent- all of those uncomfortable gazes-" his sentence unfinished, he turns an accusing glare on Timpani. She stars back unabashedly.

"Surely," she theorizes with a smirk, "a jester shouldn't suffer from stage fright."

Dimentio doesn't waste time in his reply. "I'm afraid you misunderstand, my lady. I'm hardly droll. You'll find I'm rather saturnine in disposition." Her smug smile falters, and Dimentio's crooked one returns. "Does that disappoint you, my lady? Good." He avoids further eye contact with the lady and turns instead to face the count. "I hope you will forgive me, but I've grown rather weary and am afraid I must retire to bed. Traveling has worn me thin."

Most of the faces in the room are staring at him with a sort of shocked silence, especially the count, who doesn't seem to know how to react to Dimentio's jagged wit.

"Y-yes- very well-" the count says. His charming demeanor has sputtered to a stop, and once he realizes this, he shakes his head and forces a smile. Stands. Dimentio stands as well, and the count clasps his hand heartily. "What I mean to say is, of course you may retire to bed. I can understand completely. I will have a servant rouse you in the morning, as I will be holding a council before breakfast- Miriam, you will show Master Dimentio back to his chambers..."

Dimentio's mind is whirring for the entire trek back to his room. He can tell that his performance at dinner has made Mimi slightly uncomfortable, and yet he doesn't care. His anger at Timpani has exhausted him. _"I always win arguments-_" but that is a bluff all on its own! The same could easily be said for Dimentio. Why, he hasn't lost an argument in a long time. That's not to say he's involved himself in many, but still...

They reach his chambers and he stands ramrod-straight in the doorway. Mimi observes his composure and decides to comment on it.

"You're very staunch, you know," she says hesitantly. "I've never seen somebody seem so stiff, never seen somebody with actions so heavily calculated..."

He raises another eyebrow. "Does that bother you?"

"No," she answers slowly. "It doesn't."

"But it bothers the others."

"It may irk them. I wouldn't know."

"What of the lady?" he presses. Mimi shrugs.

"Why, she likes you. I can tell she likes you."

Something about Mimi's hypothesis causes Dimentio to stall. "Is that true?"

"Of course it's true," Mimi replies. "If she didn't like you, she'd be polite to you. She's always polite to people she dislikes."

The hint of a smile crosses the mercenary's countenance. "I must say, Lady Timpani is by far the oddest intellectual I've ever met."

"I'm quite sure she thinks the same of you."

"You say she likes me," Dimentio reiterates.

"At the very least, she doesn't find you boring."

"But she finds all the rest of you boring?"

"She finds us quite dull, sir."

He is quiet for a moment. Finally, he says, "I would like for you to call me 'Dimentio.' In fact, tell the count that I would like for all of you to call me 'Dimentio.' I can't keep up with all of these formalities."

Mimi seems inquisitive. "Were there no such formalities where you came from?"

Dimentio smiles again, but this smile is almost cruel. "You don't want to know about where I came from," he insists. Mimi gulps; his tone is sinister, and it alarms her. He takes a step back into his chambers as a sign that he soon plans to bid her good night. "Mimi," he says, "I have appreciated your help immensely, but I really must go. Good-night."

"Good-night, Dimentio."

And without a second to spare, he slams the door in her face and turns away from the door smiling. He undresses methodically, hanging up the jester's uniform and changing into a musty old nightshirt. But instead of going to bed he finds a nice open spot in the middle of the room and closes his eyes. Concentrates. He considers the light spectrum, considers the hidden wavelengths that only magicians can access, and as he focuses, he taps into that wavelength. He takes off his leather gloves for the first time that night, and his hyper-sensitive skin runs across the fibers in the air. His fingertips snag on a loose stitch in the universe just like the one in the pillow, and with a precise and relaxed grip, he pulls. The threads of the universe unravel, wavelengths that only he can manipulate shifting at his touch, and there, in the middle of his room, a window to another dimension opens.

A green light bursts forth from the fissure, smothering Dimentio in its haunting glow. He is rather quiet, and after a moment, he hears it.

Screaming.

"LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! FOR THE SAKE OF SANITY,_ LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT._..!"

He smiles and closes his eyes, the wretched sobbing like a lullaby to him. He peers in once more, and whatever distorted sight meets his eyes seems to soothe him. But after awhile, he must close the bridge between universes. He runs his fingers along the edge of the window and it vanishes, the cries of _let me out_ fading until they are no more than an echo in his own mind.

He crawls into bed after that, nestling his head into the pillow and appreciating the darkness as it closes in around him. His thoughts return to Lady Timpani, and he feels anger rising within him. Anger is no more than a chemical reaction, he reminds himself. Human emotion is just a side effect of science, and science, as he has stated many times, is one of the laws of the universe. By that extended logic, the irritation he feels regarding Timpani is one of the laws of the universe, therefore causing its source, Timpani herself, to be an agent of the universe.

Yes, the logic of emotion is all there.

But it is not reassuring.

It is not reassuring because he hasn't had to apply logic to any sort of emotion in a long time. And that is because Timpani is the first creature, let alone the first human, to have made him _feel_ anything in months.

That, simply put, is anything but reassuring. If anything, it's alarming.

And the most frightening part?

He almost likes it.

**Ack! Sorry for the long style of prose is quite difficult to get used to, not to mention the attention to math and science- ugh, by the way. Math.**

**Please spare a moment to review this chapter! I would appreciate that immensely. Thanks :)**


	4. Marches in Red

**CARD CASTLE**

**Episode 3:**

When Dimentio awakens, he does not know where he is. For a second, his groggy mind tries to process the images presented to him- stone walls and dark curtains- and then it all comes rushing back at once, and he groans inwardly as he remembers the details of the night before.

He stands and dresses into his uniform robotically. He's never had much of a morning routine- a lifestyle that required him to travel from place to place has made him easily flexible for whatever he might encounter in the early hours of the day, and so he's never had any reason to stick to one specific schedule. Even in his adoration for logic and order he's never found reason to organize time itself, and the idea that he might begin to implement such an idea into his life makes him almost uncomfortable. Still, Count Blumiere's fortune is Dimentio's only support system at the moment. He has to get used to this if he even plans to survive.

There is a knock on the door and Dimentio answers it. As he expects, Mimi is standing on the other side, looking very fresh and cheery and altogether quite pretty.

"Good morning, Mas- um, I mean, good morning, Dimentio!"

"The same to you," the mercenary answers coolly. "May I ask what the occasion is?"

"Occasion?" Mimi giggles. "It's my job to let you know that Count Blumiere's council will be meeting shortly, and you are of course expected to attend. I can lead you there, if you'd like."

"I'd like it very much," Dimentio answers, and he follows her out into the cool, empty hallway, slamming his door behind him. He is very quiet but Mimi prattles on ceaselessly about something of very little importance; Dimentio listens carelessly, focusing only on the remerging memory of Lady Timpani. He is upset at himself for dwelling so heavily on the lady of the house, but there is something about her that causes his mind to whir. He knows she is not simple in the same way that Mimi is; no, the lady is the kind of woman who is secretly yearning for something great. He does not know how that makes him feel, and so he keeps the confusion close to himself and struggles to drown it with logic. He predicts that Blumiere will have five people on his council because four are far too few to provide variety of opinion but six are far too many to keep a secret.

Sure enough, when the doors to the council room swing open, three people besides the count are already seated- O'Chunks, and two men that Dimentio does not recognize. Mimi finds a spot beside O'Chunks and Dimentio takes the end of the table opposing the count. It is still early morning and the dull blue light of twilight casts long shadows across the room, leaving an unearthly, dusky glow around the count's head. Dimentio smirks; he appreciates drama immensely.

The count is the first to speak. "Welcome, all of you. I am very glad you in particular could make it, Dimentio."

Dimentio returns the greeting with a small nod. "It is my pleasure, My Lord."

The count goes on by explaining that this morning they will be discussing castle security. He explains that accessibility to Flipside and Flopside alike is beginning to alarm him, because he knows that Timpani and Mimi have been going off for walks now and again to the townships, and he is beginning to worry that they might one day walk out too far and not return.

Mimi scoffs. "That is ridiculous!" she finally claims, but O'Chunks begs to differ.

"The count is righ', Mimi, yeh need tuh be careful out thar! Thar's bad men after yeh…"

"After _me?_" Mimi harrumphs. "Don't be silly. Flipside is perfectly benign."

"But Flopside is ridden with hoodlums and criminals!" argues the man sitting beside the count.

"Oh, be quiet, all of you!" the count cries suddenly, rolling his eyes so much that Dimentio fears comically that they might disappear into his tophat. There is silence, and the count stands up. He paces to the side a few steps and his face collapses into his gloved hand. "You do understand," he says quietly, "exactly _why _I fear for the lady's safety, do you not?!" he exclaims. "It is because we have the dark tribe on our tails! They are upset- very upset- that we chose to flee. If they ever find us, they will no doubt punish us justly. Our fortress is the only safe haven we have, and I worry that these continued excursions beyond castle walls will only put Timpani into _more _danger!"

"But Count Blumiere-"

"I cannot risk it!" the count cries.

"Why do you even request counseling when you refuse to even consider our words?!" the other man demands, and the count lets out a long sigh.

"The lady is everything to me," he explains, which doesn't even answer the question that has been posed. "I cannot lose her."

Dimentio has been quiet this whole time, and it is now that he finally speaks up. "Why do you meet with a council to discuss the _lady's _fate?" he finally asks, his words quiet and slow. The count raises an eyebrow.

"Do you honestly expect me to make such decisions on my own?"

"I would _expect _you to make such decisions with the _lady_, if not let the lady make them for herself."

The count shakes his head. "The lady is far too wayward- she enjoys such excursions because she finds them _adventurous_."

"Then allow her to enjoy such adventures!" Dimentio cries, not understanding why the count does not see the logic in the situation. He exhales, short on patience. "If you keep the lady on a leash," he explains, "then eventually she will desire to either rebel or escape completely. You can not honestly expect her to conduct herself exactly as _you _wish her to- I've known her for mere hours and I already know her aversion to boredom."

"Count Blumiere, if I may-" a man begins, but he is cut off.

"Are you suggesting that you know my mistress better than I do?" the count asks suddenly. Dimentio is slightly alarmed- Count Blumiere has been a pleasant, gentle man thus far- to see him driven to anger is more than slightly disconcerting. As if sensing Dimentio's thoughts, the count calms down immediately.

"Forgive me," he says, with no further explanation, and falls quiet. After a moment, he adds, "You are right, of course, Master lady deserves both happiness and satisfaction. It is not my place to deny her right to either. I will… discuss my concerns with her at another time."

The council ends on a quiet note, and Dimentio is ushered from the room and into the empty hall. O'Chunks is peering at him in a way that suggests anger, and Dimentio is still curious as to the identity of Blumiere's other advisors, but still he does not say a word. Even when Mimi paces past him and casts him an apparently thankful smile, Dimentio remains quiet. He occupies himself for awhile exploring corridors, entering whichever doors he fancies, thinking about math and science and the universe about the same amount as usual. The time passes idly, and before he knows it, it is time for breakfast.

Curiously, the dining room is nearly empty. The count and Timpani are nowhere to be seen, and instead of waiting for them, Mimi and O'Chunks have already set to eating. The count's other advisors have disappeared, and so the total company of the dining room adds to three. Dimentio takes a seat almost gingerly, not bothering to ask any questions. He knows that they will be addressed in three… two…

"His lordship will not be joining us on account of the fact that he is currently deep in conversation with Lady Timpani," Mimi recites, and Dimentio notices that it sounds very rehearsed. _The count probably told her to say that_, he muses, and comes to the realization that there's something they must be trying to hide-

_CRASH!_

The ceiling shakes as something apparently quite valuable shatters on the second story. Then, Lady Timpani's voice errupts into a muffled shout:

"_I'M NOT YOUR DOG, BLUMIERE!"_

Ah. They're _arguing_.

Amused, Dimentio continues with his meal. But Mimi seems weary.

"They _never _argue," she says suddenly, and Dimentio notices that Mimi is staring at him. He raises a brow.

"Are you suggesting that _I _have caused the rupture in their seamless relationship?" he asks hopefully. Mimi doesn't answer, which he takes quite smugly as a _yes_. He likes to think that he's made things a little less boring already.

Breakfast finishes on a quiet note, with O'Chunks saying nothing of much interest. The morning routine feels so far very drab, but Dimentio continues with it, and, finding that he has some free time in his schedule, he sets out for one place he's been yearning to see: the library.

He finds it in the north wing, and it is a massive, arched chamber with books as far as the eye can see- books on shelves, books in stacks, books clustered on tables, balancing on cushions, leaning up against windowpanes and mantlepieces and even balanced on some staircases. It's a wild room, with labrynthine bookshelves around which he is eager to navigate, and he steps forward excitedly. The room seems to be completely empty, or at least it is quiet enough to be. He passes several rows of history books, disregards the famous literature completely, and only stops once he's found the next set of books: the science volumes.

He scans through the shelves delightedly, his index finger running along beaten leather spines and crusty gold titles, and, still scanning, he absent-mindedly turns a corner, and bumps right into the person he was least expecting.

"Oh- Dimentio!"

He glances over irritably, upset at having been withdrawn from his heavenly pursuit of knowledge.

"Lady Timpani," he says as politely as he can muster. He glances down the aisle- Timpani had been browsing the romance section when she had rounded the corner. He glances to the book in her arms- it is some volume he has never heard of. Frilly, probably. Garbage, no doubt.

"What brings you to the library?" she asks, and Dimentio can tell that she is trying her very best to be polite after last night's row.

"Manners don't suit you," he says immediately, and turns on his heel. "I was just reading." Clearly, Timpani must realize, Dimentio does not have time for her games.

But she is not about to let him get away.

"I- I want to thank you," she says quickly, and she is trotting after him even though she knows she's unwelcome.

"For?" Dimentio replies, already knowing the answer. Smugly, he smiles halfway and turns to face her.

"For sticking up for me at Blum- er- his Lordship's council meeting this morning," she answers. "He doesn't understand that I need to _breathe _sometimes. I wasn't born into money like he was."

"I wasn't doing it for _you_," Dimentio replies, not sure whether or not he is actually lying.

"Either way, it's made a difference."

Dimentio smirks. "Excuse me for being forward, but did you not skip breakfast because you were too busy arguing with your intended?"

Timpani falls silent. "You heard?"

"The entire _castle _heard, and that is no understatement," Dimentio remarks. "There was rubble showering from the ceilings." This is a lie, but he is sure that Timpani will find the image amusing. Sure enough, she gives a short smile.

"Well," Timpani says too quickly, "our arguing has ended, now. His Lordship and I get along wonderfully."

"You are lying, of course, but that's all right," the mercenary remarks, and he finds an armchair near the fireplace and settles down inside it. He cracks open a thick book, assuming that it will ward off the lady. He is only proven wrong when she sits in a nearby chair, opening her own volume.

She is wordless, and yet Dimentio grows aggravated almost immediately. He peers over the top of his book at the lady, who is immersed in some leather-bound, frilly romance novel of no real substance. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and her lips are slightly parted, eyes flying across the pages as she drinks in words, turning pages with all of the fury and desire of an addict.

Finally, Dimentio can take it no longer.

"Exactly what is it you are reading, my Lady?"

"What?" she asks innocently, glancing up. It takes a second for her to return to the real world. "Oh," she says after a moment, having cleared her head. "Oh. It's a favorite book of mine- _Marches in Red_."

"_Marches in Red_," Dimentio repeats dully- indeed, it sounds very dull. "What is it about?"

"It's about a bright young woman who is being dragged through a regime that she detests. She falls in love and decides to run away with her lover- there's a surprise at the end- I've read it half a dozen times and I still haven't gotten over it."

"It sounds thrilling," Dimentio deadpans, and decides that this conversation is as good as dead. He returns absently to the study of science and leaves Timpani to her own devices.

"Do you want to know what the surprise is?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Be that way, if it suits your fancy." She stands up suddenly. "You've been foul company, but I'm glad I got to speak to you regardless of that." She pauses. "You know… I've decided to like you."

Dimentio doesn't bother to glance up. "Have you now?"

"Yes. I have. Even if you dislike me."

"Who said I dislike you?"

"Nobody said so- nobody needed to say so- but it's quite all right. You're not the first." She is halfway across the library when something compels Dimentio to turn around and yell after her.

"When you ran away with the count, was it becaue you loved him, or because you expected to encounter adventure along the way?" Timpani smirks. "I suppose it was a bit of both."

"And were you disappointed when you experienced neither?" Dimentio presses, and Timpani's jaw drops slightly.

"Why- don't accuse me- you- you awful man-" she stumbles and trips over her words, and clutches her book to her chest suddenly and pivots on her heel. "I don't want to hear another word out of your horrid mouth!"

"Yes you do," Dimentio responds glibly.

"I _don't!_" she cries, but she is grinning. Dimentio knows that he's hit a weak spot and has made her nervous, and somehow the nerves have caused her to ignite. She's odd- very odd- it is aggravating Dimentio beyond compare. Somewhere along the way he's started smiling as well, and upon this realization, he forces himself to frown.

With a final scoff, Timpani deposits _Marches in Red _on a nearby tabletop and makes for the door, turning, smiling, biting her lip, and then letting it slam shut behind her. The sound echoes and rattles throughout the library for a moment, and Dimentio watches the spot where the lady vanished only moments ago with a churning feeling in his gut. Again with the _feelings_- how is he to rid himself of them?!

He leafs blankly through the pages of a chemistry book, hardly paying attention to hydrogen this and oxygen that, and when he realizes with a start that his thoughts have been poring over Lady Timpani for the past ten minutes, he gives up on chemistry and gets to his feet almost reluctantly. He paces across the library slowly, heels clicking on marble tile, and only stops once he is standing face-to-face with Timpani's battered copy of _Marches in Red_. Checking over his shoulder to make sure nobody is around to witness his moment of weakness, he withdraws the volume from its resting spot and settles down with it. He skims through pages- this is foolish- and even takes a minute to read the first few lines of the starting chapter.

"_At approximately four o' clock on a Tuesday afternoon, in the shadow of a staunch tutor and a tightly-packed bookshelf, I decided that I hated my life. It didn't seem an irrational thought at the time of its inception- after all, I'd been the victim of constant badgering by my own father, swarmed by foreign frocks and jewels and suitors who usually had far too long a nose or much too greasy a head of hair. I'd been forced through a press-mold, shaped exactly as a young lady of my standing ought to be shaped, and it had never occurred to me until that fateful afternoon that I was not necessarily required to live the way that I had been told to all those years…"_

A _bang _sounded from just outside the library doors, and Dimentio, wide-eyed, snapped the book shut and snapped his fingers- it vanished into midair, and at that moment, the doors to the library opened.

"Yoo-hoo… is anyone in here?"

_Mimi_.

Dimentio turned in his seat. "Ah, Mimi… I was just studying chemistry…"

She gives him some request- wash up for some meeting or another, supper is in a few hours, don't forget things of significance- he's been here twenty-four hours and the regime is becoming quickly drab. If not for Lady Timpani, this place and its residents would be hopelessly dull.

And yet he feels that his aggravation toward the lady has waned significantly, though he cannot say quite _why_. Perhaps it is because she, like Dimentio, has realized that routines and rules feel very old very quickly- and she desires to break free of it, and that gives Dimentio hope.

…

A few hours later, Dimentio finds himself seated at the supper table once more. The atmosphere has lightened immensely from what it was that morning, and Timpani and Blumiere are acting like lovers once more. Timpani continually caresses the count under the table, and he becomes redder and redder in contrast to his pale white top hat.

Mimi and O'Chunks are acting like this is very old news to them, and so they occupy themselves separately. Mimi seems to be attempting to teach the brute manners, and Dimentio only finds it mildly amusing. Surely she realizes that such an endeaver is far beyond the realm of possibility. Dimentio doubts that O'Chunks has enough room in his brain to even retain the information she is trying to force-feed him.

Dimentio tries not to pay any mind to the affections Timpani is casting in the count's direction. To be fair, there is something about her attitudes that is making Dimentio's stomach turn. He does not know this emotion- it is yet another emotion he has never felt before- becoming upset with himself, he vows to meditate later. He cannot continue to feel things. Already today he has encountered a range of colorful thoughts and feelings that should be beyond a simple, robotic persona like himself.

"Master Dimentio," the count says after a long while, "tell us about yourself!"

Dimentio is hesitant to respond. "I would not know what to say."

"Well? Let's start with your age. How old are you?"

The mercenary is quiet. "Twenty-seven," he finally answers.

"Is that the truth?" Mimi asks accusingly.

"Yes," Dimentio answers simply, and he is pleased when he realizes that the company cannot tell whether or not he is bluffing. There is nothing he enjoys more than being ambiguous.

"Where did you learn magic from?" the count presses.

"I learned from a number of instructors, although they never lasted very long. I went through them quickly…"

"Why?" asks Mimi. Dimentio shoots her a glare to indicate that she is being nosy, and that she really ought to mind her own business. She seems to get the idea.

"Did yeh have a mam or pa?" O'Chunks now inquires.

"Yes," Dimentio answers coldly, although he does not intend for it to sound that way. "Yes, I did. But they are dead now," he adds briskly. No sense in sugar-coating it.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the count muses, and he says it so lightly and carelessly that it is very obvious that he is not sorry at all. But then again, why should he be? No doubt the count has never held any true fondness for his own parents.

"Are you really good at magic?" Mimi now asks. Dimentio thinks that it is a very stupid question, but he does not tell her that.

"Yes," he answers.

"Oh!" the count cries, and the company glances over as Blumiere clasps his gloved hands together. "Oh, I've got a _brilliant _idea- Master Dimentio, you really must entertain us after dinner! You must have some magician's trick that you can regale us with, yes?"

Dimentio represses a scowl. _Does this count really believe that legerdemain is the extent of my training? _he thinks scornfully, but then he forces a small smile.

"Yes," he says obediently, because he _is _a servant, after all, and he must find a way to please the master of the house. "I believe I can think of something."

…

And so the company gathers around in the drawing room late that night, Timpani sprawling shamelessly across the count's lap and causing Dimentio's gut to churn again. He detests the sight of the pair for reasons he does not understand, and focuses instead on the empty tabletop in front of him. He thinks for a moment, wondering what he can possibly do to entertain these people. Glancing about the room, he tries to think of something- and then the answer comes to him as he notices an unused deck of cards on a shelf off to the side.

Pleased with himself, he retrieves them, and shuffles them for a minute, letting the cards dance through his nimble fingers before they come to rest on the tabletop. Having devised a small plan in his mind, he gestures to his audience.

"Can I please have a volunteer from the audience?"

Mimi steps up without missing a beat and makes her way gracefully to the front of the room. Dimentio spreads out all of the cards in a fan.

"Choose one."

Mimi picks one, peeks at it, and upon Dimentio's instruction, returns it to the pile. He then goes through the usual motions- shuffling the cards, laying them out in piles, letting them dance through the air and regale the audience. Their eyes drink in the scene before them greedily, and the pinnacle of the night is reached as Dimentio snaps his fingers and withdraws Mimi's card from the pile. A flawless performance.

Mimi squeals. "Oh! How wonderful!"

Blumiere is clapping his hands. "You really are quite the magician, aren't you?" he says, and it is clear that any harsh feelings he felt towards Dimentio for this morning have now vanished. He stands up and yawns. "Well, I am exceptionally tired. I hate to be a bore, but I really must retire to bed now." He removes his top hat and combs a gloved hand through his dusty brown hair before replacing it and pivoting on his heel. "Good night, my dear company."

The count is bid good night, and O'Chunks is soon to follow, stumbling over a footstool clumsily and turning the corner with a final, boisterous round of applause for their jester.

He has disappeared, and Mimi steps forward, wrapping her hands around Dimentio's wrist and squeezing it.

"That really was so fascinating," she says, and Dimentio is slightly uncomfortable by the heavy adoration in her voice.

"Indeed," he drones, and Mimi says a final farewell before slipping out of the room.

Dimentio turns back to the cards, striking them on the table a couple of times to line up the edges, and then he slips the entire deck into his back pocket without thinking twice. When he glances back up, he realizes that Timpani has not left, and she is staring directly at him.

"Aren't you going to follow the count to bed?" he asks dryly, realizing suddenly that he should probably filter his words.

Instead of answering, Timpani just gives him an accusing glare. "That wasn't _real _magic. It was just a cheap card trick."

"Magic is just an advanced form of science," Dimentio answers as he has a thousand times.

"That wasn't science, either," Timpani scoffs. "It was just you being sleight of hand, that's all."

Dimentio raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, then, that I was not able to entertain you," he says. "However, I have not been employed here to be made a fool of, and it would do you well to remember that." With this, he turns his back on her and begins walking away.

"Can you even _do _real magic?!" she suddenly asks, and he stops. Turns. He remains expressionless.

"If you don't want me to perform tricks, Lady Timpani, then do not join in the count's quest to undermine me, because believe me, my Lady-" his voice has gone rather dark now- "I know better than anyone my full potential, and I can assure you that it is not meant to be used in jest."

He marches away, aggravated with her, as usual. It is her voice, quiet against the cackling of the fireplace, that stops him.

"I agree with you, you know," she says.

"How so?"

"That you don't deserve to be made into the royal fool. I believe that you're very powerful, and I believe you were meant for better things than belittlement from a count that doesn't understand people."

Dimentio smirks and eyes the floor. "I sense resentment in your voice, and it's not towards me this time."

"Then you are not mistaken," she answers bitterly, and pauses. She bites her lip. "I am glad that you are here- very glad- and I want to prove it to you, but I don't know how. I know you do not like me."

"I never said that."

"You never had to."

"Well that's- it's false. You should know that it is false," he chokes out, and it is the most difficulty he's had stringing a series of words together in a long time.

A pause. She steps forward slowly and places a gentle hand on his forearm so that he will turn around. He gazes over her face, thinking that perhaps she is not so plan as he initially thought- here in the firelight, dressed all in red, she seems very elegant and very human and very real. His breath hitches momentarily in his throat, and by instinct he takes her hand, gloved in satin, and kisses it.

"Good-night, then, Lady Timpani," he breathes.

"Good-night, Dimentio."

And then he rushes from the room, heart pounding, and doesn't stop until he knows he won't be tempted to turn back.

**Filler chapter is ehh. Thanks to anyone who is reading! I've added song lyrics to the beginning of several chapters. I am choosing from a selection of very recent music, most likely music that can be found in the hip hop or pop genre as I want to give an old-fashioned setting a modern atmosphere. **


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